Forget Sanctions – Send My Son to Iran

There was much talk in the Presidential debate about the effectiveness of sanctions on Iran. Was our economic blockade deterring the Iranian regime from acquiring a nuclear arsenal? I don’t know the answer to that question, but I do know of a far more effective tactic than the sanctions: My sixteen-year old son.

When this sweet little boy was born, I could carry him with one arm and feed him an entire meal from a small jar. Unfortunately, over the years this little bundle of joy has expanded into a hulking teen of hunger. The jar of baby food that once fed him an entire meal would barely be considered garnish atop today’s daily feed.

In all fairness to the lad, he’s not overweight. In fact, he’s a swimmer, which only makes matters worse. If you ever witnessed a swimmer eat after a heavy-duty practice, its not pretty. Anything and everything within arm’s reach is sucked into his maw; its like a caloric black hole. Once, the family cat got too close, and it took a fast-thinking karate chop from mom to prevent the boy from shoveling the howling critter in whole.

The drain on the family resources from a one-boy feeding frenzy has been devastating. Twice we’ve mortgaged the house in order to afford his dinner order at Culvers (the restaurant calls in additional staff when they see him saunter up to the counter.) My wife works two jobs, while I spend my time scouring the Wisconsin Interstate in search of fresh road-kill.

I knew I needed an epiphany to work my way out of this jam. Thankfully, during a recent Presidential debate, the geopolitical world smacked head on with the gastrointestinal world, and I found my way out. I decided to send the boy over to Iran, and let him deplete their resources one refrigerator at a time.

A Simple Ruse and He’s Off

I notified the Obama Administration of the plan. They expressed some concerns over the effect the boy’s absence would have on the GNP, but they liked the idea of the one-man sanction. President Obama even sent a message: “Godspeed and bon apetit.”

Next, I needed to convince his mother. I described the mission to her, and she immediately began shaking her head. “Not my baby,” she wept.

My brow scrunched, and I mentioned the extra closet space she’d be afforded once his room was vacated. Her face immediately brightened. “Tell my baby to start packing,” she exclaimed. “I’m going shopping!”

The next step was to pitch the boy. I found him at the breakfast table. He was wearing his Dr. Dre’s and eating the remains of a pig that I’d slaughtered for him earlier in the morning. As usual, he was playing some sort of game on his iPhone and cursing as his greasy fingers slid across the touch screen.

“Hey, mind going over to Iran for a few months?” I said.

He nodded and shouted, “Ok Dad!” I could hear the thump of his Dr. Dres and knew he hadn’t heard a word, but that was ok. I’d captured his acquiescence on my own phone recorder, so there was no backing out on his part.

I conspired with his swim coach, asking him if he would plot out a special open water swim for the boy: Across the Atlantic Ocean, down around the tip of Africa, and then up into the Arabian Sea and the Persian Gulf. “He should plenty hungry by the time he arrives,” I said.

The boy departed, somewhat mystified by the fact that he was the only swimmer taking on this rather beastly workout (“You’re their distance guy,” I reasoned.)

I also exploited his sixteen-year old lack of foresight. It’s not uncommon for him to dash off to an event without planning what he might need (coat, money, shoes), and in this case, he doesn’t bother to ask what he’ll do in Iran once he arrives.

The CIA was in on the gig, and they tracked his progress via satellite. Very much according to my plan, the boy arrived in Iran a few days after departing, ravenous and wet. I watched him knock on doors in the city of Bandar-e-Abbas once he arrived, asking for some food.

The boy did not speak Farsi, but we had spent three to four weeks learning how to pronounce Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s name. He blurted it out, and either he garbled the pronununciation so badly, or the nice people of Bandar-e-Abbas just took pity on him. Either way, they invited him in. And we were underway.

م گرسنه

Before sending him off, I’d googled the translation of “I’m hungry” which reads, “م گرسنه.

The boy blurted out, “م گرسنه,” and the mother of the household, responding to maternal instincts to feed unconditionally, ordered the father to go slaughter a pig. I saw the man’s jaw drop and felt his bank account begin to hemorrhage. He had not idea what he was in for.

After 72 hours of non-stop eating, the Bandar-e-Abbasians banded together and tried to figure out how to stop the eating machine. The menfolk wanted to behead the boy, but he was charming and showed promise as a potential entrant for the swim team in Rio in 2016, so they instead slaughtered more pigs.

Soon the boy had decimated the food supply of Bandar-e-Abbas, and he began working his way up the coast. Bandar-e-Shenas, Molgarat, Bandar Moghuyeh, and then inland to Shiraz, Isfahan and up to Tehran. Along the way, he annihilated dishes of Aash-e Gojeh Farangi; masticated through Mirza Ghasemi; and downed Dolme Baadenjaan. He ate without remorse, and often without wiping his mouth.

Eventually, the economy of Iran began to teeter. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad showed up at the UN, and instead of decrying Israel or cursing out the US, he passed a hat. “Please contribute. Cash is good, but leftovers are better,” he said.

The Obama Administration and I high-fived as Iran appeared ready to concede on the nuclear arms issues. For some reason, however, they did not. And I found out why a few days later.

I had just finished up a hearty breakfast (there seemed to be plenty to eat in the house these days), when the front doorbell rang.

I opened the door, and my blood ran cold. I gulped, and my knees grew weak.

Standing before me was a soaking wet sixteen-year old boy, wearing a t-shirt bearing the Iran flag. “Hi,” he said with a heavy Iranian accent. “Can I come in? I’m hungry.”